


Mask of the Child

by MungoJerry



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Accidental theming, Ciaran is a hoss, Crumbling kingdoms, F/M, Female Chosen Undead (Dark Souls), Gen, How do we save Artorias?, I never thought I'd be one of those people to write excessive nonsense in tags, I've been tinkering with this for a decade, In some ways accidentally canon/cross-game compliant, Oolacile, Romance is not the focus of the plot, The chosen undead is annoyingly overpowered, The third option, Traumatically., as in canon, but here we are, crosspost, work for your happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27660211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MungoJerry/pseuds/MungoJerry
Summary: Her presence had been refreshing. Bloat-headed monsters made for poor company and worse hunting. But Marvelous Chester immediately marked this undead for a fool.  She had clearly taken the words of that over-sized fungi to heart, throwing herself into the misty wards sealing the colosseum again and again.  It took a while for him to realize the true profundity of her foolishness.That unfortunate creature in the colosseum- she thought she could save him.
Relationships: Artorias the Abysswalker & Lord's Blade Ciaran
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	1. Child, Jester, Warrior, Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to write a little dedication to FF.net user mihairu7, who always leaves very sweet and generous reviews for me. You can find their work and profile here: https://www.fanfiction.net/u/11310698/mihairu7
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :)

* * *

Oolacile was a prosperous nation nestled in a mystic woodland, the gardens and trees lovingly tended by animate scare crows. The way-roads guarded by golems and tame chimera. The city of the gods was its neighbor. In the distance- through a crafted lense- one could see Anor Londo's white walls and towering parapets crowning the top of the sheer cliffside.

Oolacile was said to be the land of golden sorceries, magic that shifted perception. That morning, Chester could see why. It had misted all night, driving him deeper under the small ledge near the cliffside. As the sun began to rise, the mist subsided and gave way to thick fog. The fog amplified and diffused the dawning rays until all was cloaked with a golden aura. It burned his eyes. It hid the ugly truth.

Oolacile was dead, the fog a golden funeral shroud hiding its decay. Dark pits ate away at the earth, and the ground subsided into a churning void. The city sank by parts into a yawning abyss, buildings and causeways forming dizzying angles. Untended, the custodial magic had run wild. The scarecrows turned their pruning shears towards living flesh, and the golems smashed friend and foe alike. No longer bearers of gentle sorceries, the inhabitants now wielded pitch-black hexes that roiled like fire. The people were transformed, heads swollen and blistering with beady red eyes, limbs overlong and turned to violence.

As Chester had said to her that day, _Oolacile has brought the Abyss upon itself. Fooled by that toothy serpent, they upturned the grave of primeval man, and incited his ornery wrath_. And what a wrath it was.

He thought to himself: _Bugger it all._

* * *

As the sun rose further, the fog began to thin. A dim figure, indistinct at first, stepped through the haze and quietly approached the colosseum. Grey, gold hemmed cloth wrapped their frame, and the fall of the gold braided belt had a feminine suggestion. A hem of chainmail clinked lightly against the greaves of a silver knight. Similarly silver gauntlets gripped the haft of a slender spear of the same make in one hand, the other empty. Green tinted shadows cast by the canopy of Oolacile's royal grove moved across the face of a tilted mask- the face of a curly-locked child- giving an impression of shifting features.

"Back for more?" Chester's words came out harsh and provocative. He leaned against the wall of rock at his back, arms and legs crossed. His black leather longcoat merged him with the shadows, but his own pale mask stood out beneath the brim of his hat, expression frozen in a mocking rictus. Marvelous Chester knew this grey woman well.

She called herself Myssa, and she'd been the first sane person he'd seen in a long while, another person pulled into the past. It had been refreshing. Bloat-headed monsters and murderous scarecrows made for poor company and worse hunting. He pegged her for a fool almost immediately. She trusted him readily, buying his wares and picking his brain. She even deigned to remove her own mask, swinging her legs off the nearby ledge and dropping prism stones into the gorge like she was on some holiday. And she had clearly taken the words of that oversized fungi to heart, as she threw herself into the misty wards sealing the colosseum again and again.

Why didn't she just _leave?_ She obviously had a way of returning to her own slip of time. If he'd been in the same position, he'd have left long ago.

He used to keep track of how many times she'd died there, but had grown tired of the game. It had been a while since he'd sen her last. Part of him had missed having someone to pick at, and she'd made an easy- if ultimately unresponsive- target.

What a bore.

At first he'd commented on her lack of skill, her foolish persistence. After she'd trudged out of the gorge below bearing the eye of the black dragon Kalameet, he'd been forced to recant. It was obvious she wasn't weak, further evidenced by the battles nearby that grew more protracted with each attempt. There was some other reason she kept losing.

After hitting on the truth, his laughter almost sent him off the cliff. She'd broken step only a little, but that had been enough. Turned out she was madder than he realized.

After that the game truly began. He tried to have something new each time she stalked past.

"You know, if you really want to take him home, I can sell you a collar and leash."

"I'm sure bringing home a legend would really impress your parents, if you've got any. Maybe they'd even forget your darksign!"

"I hadn't pinned you for a masochist." Low hanging fruit, that one.

"Don't you think you two are a little... mismatched? I mean, he is quite-" she hadn't let him finish that one. He'd had to toss over a few of his hard earned humanity sprites before she'd lower the dragonbow- wherever the hell she'd pulled THAT from. He wanted to get her back for that.

But now...

He'd seen her creep from behind the cliff edging the colosseum wall earlier, no doubt visiting Hawkeye Gough, another legend come to life in this land of twisted children's tales. She stood stone still facing the steps to the colosseum, flanged spear head sagging near the ground, gaze trained beyond the wall of mist. At least he assumed the latter, there was no telling with that creepy mask- at least his own cheshire's grin was finely constructed. She hadn't even acknowledged him.

Her stare shifted from the ward and down to her gauntleted left hand, clenching the fingers experimentally. Chester thought he saw the shimmer of a familiar magic there, dancing over the surface like a ripple of heated air, but dismissed the idea almost immediately.

_Impossible._

"It's been too long. I'm sure he's missed you," he tried again, chuckling, and only got the barest head tilt in his direction. Chester frowned behind his mask and sighed in frustration. She still flexed her fingers, staring at nothing. Was she drugged? This used to be fun, back when the undead git had any personality.

Still, she was his only customer. In either direction lay death and destruction as Oolacile corroded in the grip of the Abyss. He could afford to throw her a bone.

The homeward bone narrowly missed her head, and Chester didn't want to admit that wind and error had no effect on his aim.

She did look at him this time, blank mask staring. It had a tilt to it that didn't match the contours of the wearer's face. She turned to the homeward bone, then expertly hooked it with her foot and arced it into the canyon. When they heard the telltale splash of the bone finding the bottom, she turned to leave, and Chester began to shake, chuckling to himself.

Despite the inevitable nature of the curse, he got the oddest, most certain feeling she wasn't coming back this time.

He wouldn't be seeing her again.

His mouth- the real one- twisted, and he abruptly spun around and punched the wall at his back, hissing in regret a moment later.

The fog groaned as it accepted its challenger.

* * *

Ciaran's soft, porcelain mask served many purposes. A show of honor, something to strive for. To be cool in battle, and unreadable in life. Her control over her blades and body were perfect, a refined dance etching gold and silver and blue through the weave of her enemies. She wove a shield around her Lord, her land, her fellows, and herself.

She hadn't known what to expect when she marched out the gates of Anor Londo with a band of silver knights and clerics. She knew Dragonslayer Ornstein must've been watching them leave from a high tower. When no word had come from Artorias or Gough, Ciaran insisted on leading a force to Oolacile. She thought he might try to stop her from going, from leaving the city with fewer forces and one less knight. But instead he had wearily assented, hands clasped behind his back as he studied the carved likenesses of the royal family standing in the Godmother's court. His crimson plume and brassy armor had glowed in the setting sun in a way that conjured feelings of melancholy nostalgia.

"Ornstein," she had said suddenly, "I'll bring them home."

He was quiet for a while, and he might have sighed, but he said over his shoulder, "Come home safely." And so she had left to prepare.

Ciaran's mask was a shield, and she was a sword. So some small part of her, the Observer, was amazed and terrified by the forces that punched through the dam of her personal shields, driving her limbs to rash action when she crossed the threshold of Oolacile's public arena. Saw the Knight Artorias pinned to the ground by a giant, black phantom.

And it siphoned something from him in a stream of sinuous blue veils- something a little more solid than smoke- and he _howled_ in a way no living creature should, and her blood ran cold as she rushed the towering black mass, its edges rimmed in white light.

She had an irrational flash of memory- Artorias teaching Sif, then a pup, how to howl in the wood bordering Anor Londo. She'd promised to keep that particular training session secret.

The memory blessedly fled, and she saw the abyss- it could be nothing else- crawling over and through the beast, continually changing and enlarging its humanoid silhouette as it continued its treacherous work. As she bolted forward, Ciaran's dual tracers flashed out of their hidden scabbards and bit deep into the blackness, despite the Observer's tactical misgivings. She felt the tear of gelatinous abyssal tissue, like softened ligaments, and her mouth twisted in disgust behind her mask. The beast let out a shriek, shrinking from her attack, so she took a backstep and twisted, slashing again, before leaning to the left in a feint, then dashing right in an arc around her groaning opponent.

What to do?

_Make it stop._

The mass forming the head turned and flashed a pair of white eyes, blazing like cold stars against the black. Abruptly, the creature's free arm whipped out bonelessly in a high swipe. Ciaran ducked and dashed underneath, readying her blades. She must focus, not give in to panic. Wasn't that her first lesson, as a knight?

She skipped over and through debris, trying to ignore the wretched howls, putting distance between herself and the creature as the arm chased with wicked fingers. But she wasn't out of range. The arm extended in a ripple of motion to strike the ground in front of her with a terrible _CRACK_ , pelting her with shards of stone, before sweeping towards her. She leapt forward to meet it, kicking her legs into the air with a dancer's grace while pinwheeling her arms, slicing cleanly through the appendage passing below in a flash of gold. She bounced on her landing, backpedaling to view her handiwork.

Like the wound before, this one didn't bleed, but it did appear to hurt. The arm writhed, and the beast added it's own howls to the chorus of pain filling the ruin, head rolling on its shoulders. The detached piece, flopping like a beached eel, began to steam and decompose in a bubbling mass of black and blue that seemed to eat into the stone.

She dashed for Artorias, daring to pass closer to the monster. She pulled back her tracer and put on a burst of speed, slicing through the root-like masses pinning her comrade to the ground with a twitch of her shoulder while she flew past. She spun on her heel and slid to a stop, meaning to make another pass, when the creature _screamed_ , deafening enough to make her stop and reflexively cover her ears. The sound shook her in a way the previous cries hadn't. Beneath the monstrous tones was something too _human_.

Suddenly, a myriad of whipping arms burst out of the back of the monster. They moved like hungry serpents, grasping at the space she'd vacated only moments earlier. She had to keep moving, weaving and cutting through grasping vines like a wasp in a tangled garden. _Too many_ , she thought. _Too many, if I can only_ -

She dove through the gap between two arms, rolling to her feet before running up a piece of rubble and jumping off its peak. The roots she'd cut, the ones worming through the body of her friend, were _mending_. She sprinted for him, arms pumping.

She slipped, boot sliding across the remnants of abyssal muck. NO, right yourself! _RIGHT YOURSELF_ \- she twisted, trying to land on her hands. She got her feet beneath her, pushed off, but it grew dark.

She was snatched off her feet, the force crushing the air from her lungs and giving her whiplash. She gasped from the pain- and the cold- it was COLD. She could feel the chill seeping through her robes, her armor. _Artorias_.

After a sickening lurch through the air, Ciaran felt her back slam against the wall of the colosseum. When the stars cleared from her vision, she saw she was pinned motionless by the hand of the beast, like an insect, her tracers on the ground.

It was looking at her.

The neck extended like a serpent's and the head approached, stopping where she could reach out and touch it, had she control of her arms. She felt herself quaking, in anger and terror both, teeth clattering. Anger at her failure, terror of the consequences.

Gods it was _cold_.

" _BASTARD,_ " she hissed through her mask.

The face, if it could be called that, was stoic and unresponsive, but for the tilt of a head. The panoply of arms retracted back into the main body, leaving only the two. Ciaran's blood rung in her ears, but in the new calm she realized she could hear breathing filling the space- heavy and hollow and loud, as if requiring tremendous effort. The breathing of the phantom. Artorias continued to struggle, growling raggedly like a beast.

"CIIIII...AAAAAAAARRR...AAAAAAAAANNN.." She started when she realized the monster was speaking, its breathy voice making her insides recoil. It sounded like a cold wind blowing through the darkest channels of her heart, and it _knew her name_.

The Observer gathered the pieces of her broken composure while it could, focused on her hammering heart, attempted to channel the rage to its proper place. The hand held her fast to the wall, claws digging into the stone. The other bound Artorias to the ground, and there was nothing she could do about it. _I'm a fool._

She gnashed her teeth as she stared death in the face, but death only looked back with an infuriating passivity incongruent with its former violence, white eyes bright and empty in a sea of black.

"What do you want?!" Ciaran's braid lashed through the air as she threw her head forward in what she knew was a futile attempt to break free. There was barely enough give to breath. Why wasn't she dead?

"...AAATE.." The cursed thing responded to her in a strained voice between hollow breaths. It spoke? Ate? Hate? It hated them? It was going to eat them? Ciaran stared. Was that really such a surprise? She decided she didn't care.

"-UUAAAIIIIIT-" And it hit Ciaran.

Wait. It was saying- " _Wait?_ "

For what? For death? For his? Was it going to make her watch?

The monstrous form sighed, heavy and long and wheezing, and turned from her.

"No, NO! Take me!" she pleaded, "Take me instead!" It looked back over its shoulder, contorted to keep her in place.

And slowly shook its head.

When it continued, healing the roots and drawing power from Artorias, she wailed. If the Observer were at all intact, it would have hated her weakness, but it had already been shattered in the fall of her stomach, churned in acid and blood and sour regret.

And she could not look away, for him- she could not look away. She would see his end, despite her spirit's protest- but then all she saw was darkness, for the monster denied her this as well, wrapping her in a frigid cocoon. Her cries finally died in her mouth, all sounds from the outside world gone, and she could no longer tell if her eyes were open or closed, and what did it matter? All the light and goodness was truly gone from the world. The Abyss had won, and she had been consumed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crossposted from FF.net, because I finally understand why everyone loves AO3 so much. Why do I love it so much? I can adjust the text size. I literally can't read the mobile version of the site anymore, unless I just use the app. I never knew what eyestrain felt like before. I guess I'm getting old??


	2. Grasping

* * *

"I'm going to save him."

Gough stopped mid stroke in his carving and turned to regard the small grey form leaning over the battlements. He could just make her out, through the rough holes she'd picked through the resin coating the front of his helmet. It was funny, after getting used to being blind for so long, this half sight seemed almost a nuisance. When he carved, he chose to close his eyes and focus on the feel of rough archwood in his oversized fingers. He would not share this with the child, however.

And it was, he admitted, a pleasure to see the sky once again, what little he could see. She had wanted to work on them more, but he'd bid her focus her energies on the problems of Oolacile. (And allow him to moulder.)

"When I was a little girl," she spoke again, following his silence, "I adored the stories of the Four Knights. Ornstein, the cunning dragonslayer with his lightning spear. Gough," and here she turned to offer him a smile, "the marksman and most noble of the giants. And of course, Ciaran!" here she leaned backwards, hands clinging to the battlements to hold her upright, "The skilled and graceful assassin, dancing through the shadows to deliver the Lord's justice, and a woman warrior besides! In my mind, she was just even with..." she straightened, then leaned over the wall again, slumping. "To think I would get to meet you. You're all... Just as amazing as the stories say." Those she had met, at least.

Gough remained silent, leafing through his thoughts. As a leader, he knew what to say and when. He knew the pain of words, the depths the scalpel of truth laid bare. And yet pain forged the soul, seeding wisdom. He never denied his men this, and he would not deny the young warrior before him.

With a heavy sigh, Gough said, "Child, you are cruel to prolong this game of suffering, both to the Knight Artorias-" she flinched, hunching in on herself, the witch's hood falling over her brow, "- and to yourself." He put his hands on his knees. "End this, and restore his honor." What stalked below was an empty husk. And nothing was going to change that.

Even without the resin coating his helm, Gough wondered if he would've stood a chance, had he the opportunity to do the deed himself. Artorias had, on occasion, prodded Gough to refine his close quarters skills. He allowed the barest shake of his head, in amusement, at the thought. He treasured it- it had been a long time since much had amused him. His now silent visitor managed to tease these things out.

Poor child.

He wondered what good his words would do, if any, in the face of her mad resolve.

The sky in the west glowed a soft orange, and he heard the call of a passing bird, doubtless fleeing Oolacile for gentler lands. He saw the human draw down her hood, pull out the mask- the one she said was enchanted- and tie it on. Then she turned and sat down, leaning against his knee. It reminded him of when his band of hunters had passed through a human hamlet after slaying a pair of dragons in the area. The locals had insisted on hosting them for the night, feeding them and showering them with flowers and meagre gifts. The children had stuck with him the most, though, their watery eyes peering up to meet his helm in wonder, their amazement at the size of his bow and the strength and skill with which he wielded it. They pooled at his feet like wolf pups, and his men did not dare scoff when he scooped them up and let them swing from his arms and climb on his shoulders.

He wondered, sometimes, what became of that hamlet.

Much like he wondered what would become of the young, potentially hollowing woman resting at his feet. She was absentmindedly worrying her left gauntlet, picking at the armor as if it itched.

He reached out and grabbed another rough lump of archwood from the pile, running his fingertips over the surface, feeling out the knots and burrs. He could feel a future shape beneath the dense, uneven shell, a faint echo of ancient powers. The abstraction of a face, a feeling. Regret.

_I'm sorry._

* * *

After an eternity, Ciaran felt the world shudder. It reminded her of her earliest days as a Lord's Blade, when one of her comrades roughly shook her awake. Her sister in arms had hummed with excitement, because she thought Ciaran should be awake to see the procession of the Lord's Three Knights. Blinding light lanced into her world and the pressure binding her in place released. She felt ground beneath her feet, but instantly fell to her hands and knees from weakness.

The air cleared her head, and her shoulders tensed when she heard a rumbling groan that built into a hair raising cry. Lifting her head, she saw two things: Artorias prone on the ground directly in front of her, and beyond him, beyond the arched gateway leading to the Township, the hulking form of the beast, thrashing and howling as if wholly unhinged. Her breath stilled and she grasped the ground when it stopped to turn toward her, locking hollow eyes.

And then it was gone, collapsing and fleeing into the chasm, leaving shattered stone and crushed bloatheads in its wake.

* * *

Ciaran was kneeling on the ground beside Artorias when the small contingent of silver knights finally caught up to her.

It was the scouting party she'd originally led from their small encampment on Oolacile's border. She originally planned on going alone- she was far faster and quieter alone- but this small group had insisted on accompanying her. As they were able. She accepted on the condition that they be satisfied with following her trail. She had not slowed down for them.

Alone in the colliseum, she'd rocked back and forth, one arm wrapped around her waist, other clutching the mask on her face, as she processed it.

He was alive.

When she'd leaned towards his hood, close as she ever dared, she'd felt faint breath warm the side of her face. When she rested her trembling hand on his chest, it had moved- ever so slightly- up and down. Up. Down.

_Oh, gods._

She didn't understand, after everything that had happened, why they were still alive- what she had witnessed. Ciaran had heard rumor of the terrors the abyss could spawn, of the murderous dark wraiths and their ability to feast on the souls of the living, but _this?_

He was still alive, _she_ was still alive, but what had _it_ taken from them?

Ciaran forced herself to stand, straighten, and face the approaching knights. She marched towards them and pointed a finger at the spearman, Yvir, who she knew to be swiftest.

"You!" she said, strident, "Drop your spear and shield. Run back to the bonfire and meet the rest of the contingent. Stop them there and set up a tent. Knight Artorias is gravely injured. Send a stretcher back to us and have the healers prepare to receive him!"

And if what Elizabeth had told her was true…

"And send more knights and healers to scout this area for Hawkeye Gough." Elizabeth had made it sound like he was trapped here someplace, possibly injured. She felt a pang of guilt for having nearly forgotten. What if he, too, had been attacked?

Without hesitation, the knight did as she ordered, disappearing into the trees.

"Sir Artorias-!" one of the knights gasped. It was a human knight, a former warrior- refugee- of New Londo. He'd begged to join the force formed to investigate Oolacile and see what had become of Artorias and Gough. She had reluctantly allowed it. What was his name… Ludo? It didn't matter.

Struggling for control, she called the Observer to task as she guided the shocked knights through the process of rolling Artorias over, cutting off what remained of his cloak, and then rolling him back onto it, using the dropped spear to make one side of a makeshift stretcher. They would have to mostly drag him back to camp. There was no way they could risk treating him here, but she allowed the time for one of the knights to administer a minor healing miracle, for what little good it did. Hoisting the ungainly body on the stretcher, they began the careful march back.

As they descended the threshold of the colosseum, Ciaran stopped them up short, and the human dropped Artorias's arm. She almost turned to berate him, but instead focused on the masked man in black blocking their path. He was a little beyond the bottom of the stair, gloved hands clenching and unclenching. It was obvious he didn't intend to move. Just a glance at the grinning mask made her want to strike the man in the face and break it to pieces. She signaled for the crew to gently seat Artorias on the stairs before striding down the rest of the way.

"Move aside, human. Any business you have will have to wait. Otherwise…" here she drew her gold tracer and leveled it at the interloper, "I will toss your remains into the chasm myself."

She heard the scouts behind her stirring, the ringing of a sword being drawn.

The man's fists stayed clenched as his gaze appeared to move to the ground, before snapping back up to meet her. "Is he dead?" His voice was low, with a gravelly quality like a leaf smoker.

She tucked her chin slightly and answered, "No. And I would like to keep it that way," she took a step forward, "this is your final warning."

"Tell me what happened!"

Ciaran had no care for the note of desperation in his voice as she prepared to cut him down, but the barest groan from behind made her stop and turn. Was Artorias rousing?

A sound caught her senses, and the faces of her knights snapped beyond her shoulder in alarm. When she whipped back around, lowering herself, the man was aiming a crossbow at the center of her mask.

The _nerve!_ "There is no time for this!" she hissed, cursing herself for not killing the man on sight, for letting herself be so easily distracted.

"Tell me what happened, _my lady_ , and I'll let you pass."

My lady, was it? She was quite done.

"Don't ignore me, woman-"

In an instant she was upon him, dodging his clumsy crossbow bolt with ease. Some strange mercy made her flip the tracer in her fist at the last second, burying the pommel in the pit of his stomach. She pulled her fist back and grasped his right shoulder, as if to embrace him, then grabbed his opposite arm and pushed forward on the shoulder, moving her right leg around to kick out his own and plant him on his back in the mud, her blue skirts and sleeves whirling.

He lay gasping on the ground, fighting for the air that was knocked out of his lungs. Ciaran bent down and picked up the crossbow, shouldering it.

"Your answers will have to wait. Be grateful for my patience."

Turning, she jogged back to the shocked group standing guard over Artorias's prone form. On her signal, they heaved him up once again and started for the camp. The human watched the dark robed man nervously as they passed, saw him struggle to his feet while clutching his stomach, watching them go.

He began to follow them.

"My lady…" he started, but Ciaran quickly interrupted him.

" _I know_. Let him come. He may be of use." He knew something about what she'd experienced, she was sure of it. It seemed her senses had been aware of the possibility before her conscious mind.

So she let the wretched creature trail after them, assuring herself that if she found that Artorias had somehow suffered from the delay, the man in black would see the end of her mercy.

* * *

He wasn't, and then he was.

He remembers madness and pain so complete it became numbing, crushing him to a fine point deep within himself. The center of a storm with no eye, buffeted by winds of shame and guilt. Part of him tried to reach out into the abyss, to rip apart its source, but his struggle only fed it, and together they tried to rip apart himself and whatever stood in their way.

Bloatheads, stone, and the little grey thing. Each time the grey thing approached he would crush it, but the task became more difficult with each clash, until the ashen form seemed to dance around every strike, like a mote of dust escaping his grasp. The abyss drew pictures out of its fervid paths, and he saw the faces of animals and people, weaving through the storm. Cats and wolves. Knights and gods.

He had failed them all.

And then something had happened, something...

The abyss had seized- and then- something began pulling it away. But it hadn't wanted to leave, it had sunk its roots and fibers and talons deep and clung tenaciously, because they belonged together now, and hadn't he promised himself, for the sake of the people, to the dark? Don't let me go dontletmegoDONTLETMEGO-

-then its hold snapped, and-

He is. Here. He can't move, he can barely see, and he's surrounded by a muffled cacophony. He's on his back, and someone is putting something in his mouth, trying to get him to drink. A canteen, water. He coughs, swallows a little bit. His mouth is dry and his throat aches, the latter making swallowing painful. The Abyss, it's gone. Isn't it gone? But he almost can't handle the silence, and the emptiness feels hostile, the vacuum left behind.

It _is_ gone...

He feels the canteen again, and almost chokes on bits of something that go down with the water. Immediately, he feels a measure of strength return. The pain wracking his body ebbs, and the echo of the vacuum begins to recede. His newfound energy allows him to summon the will to push back on it, focus more on his surroundings. The effort is draining, but he fights the urge to let go, slip away into empty blackness. He'd spent long enough there as it was.

He fights his eyelids, forcing them into shakey slits, and sees a shadow hovering above. It's a person, he knows this person, with her delicate mask adorned with ivory locks. Ciaran. Of course. She's always there for him, isn't she? A hand in the dark, covering his back. There to pull him out of the fire. A voice of reason.

She's shaking, he notices, and a woman is talking, but it's not her. He can almost place the voice, tremulous and aged.

"-y the -ods-"

"Thank you- izabet-"

"-time- take more-"

"Tell me- is it- who-"

Ciaran is talking to the woman, but she sounds odd. And she's still-shuddering? A bit?

Is Ciaran cold? Sick? That shouldn't be possible, with the healers, with the light of their Lord. He thinks maybe he should offer his cloak, but he can't feel his left arm. Did something happen to it? What about Sif? Sif is large, with ample fur. If Sif sits close to Ciaran, then she'd feel better. Where is Sif? He tries to turn his head, but something is keeping his head in place. Hands. Are they hers? They're not armored, so they can't be hers. Ciaran is always armored.

The thought makes him a little melancholy, but then he remembers that he wears his armor most of the time as well, along with the rest of the Four, so he can't really fault any of them for it.

But isn't hers different? He can't think of why, can't connect the dots, and it bothers him. Ornstein was always telling him to use his head more. Ciaran, too.

His head is resting on something that shakes each time Ciaran shakes. Why won't she stop shaking?

He tries again to lift his arm- his off arm- towards her, but it has worked for too long without rest, and as soon as he lifts it a little it falls back down heavily.

He feels one of the hands leave his head and touch his shoulder, and the mask comes closer. It no longer shakes, and he can hear breath draw behind it.

"Rest now," she says, voice full. The silky hair tickles his nose.

Part of him wants to argue; he should be awake. He should be doing- something. Something. What was it?

But he trusts her, because Ciaran is his... friend, and his body agrees with her suggestion. Rest now, come back stronger.

So he slips back into darkness, despite his misgivings as to what awaits him there.


	3. Question

* * *

He sleeps fitfully, the brow of his olive face tight. She couldn't stop looking away, examining the misshapen depression on the bridge of his nose, mark of a drake's claw. Couldn't believe that they both still drew breath. That his head was resting in her lap. Carefully, she transferred Artorias's head to a bedroll, then reached out to idly brush a dark curl from his brow with her fingertip.

She was grateful for Elizabeth's silence. Normally, she couldn't bear anyone to see her like this. Inside she was yet undone and feared the cracks would breach the surface of her skin, her armor, expose her to prying eyes.

If the healers had insisted on staying, she may have forced them out. As it was, they had done their best and claimed they could do no more. They couldn't understand the full extent or nature of the damage Artorias suffered, and recommended he be returned to the capital as soon as possible. His body wasn't reacting strongly enough to the healing miracles left behind by the Princess.

"You should have some, too," Elizabeth said softly, dipping the brim of her generous basidium. Ciaran wanted to take offense at her tone, but nonetheless plucked a bit from a white toadstool growing out of the ground, compliments of her hostess. She tilted her mask up and ate, her strength returning in increments. _I don't understand,_ she thought to herself _._ She let the mask fall again and turned to Elizabeth. She could hear that pestilence of a man in leathers making a ruckus outside, the knights keeping him in place.

 _"That foolish child..."_ Elizabeth had said after Ciaran's group made it back to camp and brought Artorias into the tent, her modest face contorting into an expression of deep sorrow, _"...she did it.."_

"Elizabeth. You're telling me the... thing I saw back there, that abyssal monster-" she clenched a fist after pulling her gauntlet back on, speaking stiff jawed "-was an _undead human woman?_ " Impossible? The abyss's corruption did appear to have a… proclivity, towards human beings. Had it somehow taken on this new form, used an undead woman as a vessel? Ciaran began to pace.

"But you're saying it... it _saved_ Artorias, somehow? Was s _aving him?_ " The memories rushed through her skull- the darkness, howling, the _cold_ -

 _Wait,_ it had said.

Elizabeth's cap bobbed gently, the tiny points of her eyes refusing to meet Ciaran's own. "I believe that to be the case, given the recent turn of events." She turned to Artorias on the ground, "to think the Knight Artorias would be returned to us, even in this darkest of times..."

When Ciaran and her group had first arrived in Oolacile, Elizabeth had told them of Artorias's possession. How he had fallen to the Abyss and become a demon. Oh, the disbelief and misgiving that had rumbled through the party. It was then that Ciaran had announced that she would be scouting ahead personally. What she'd thought was her darkest moment had turned to this. This...

"Elizabeth."

"She visited this bonfire often and spoke to me. Learned a few sorceries. She was not unpleasant company," Elizabeth stopped and wavered again, "she refused to slay the Knight Artorias, and begged me for help. When I could give her none, she disappeared for a time. The last I saw her was early this morning. She thanked me for my company and service, and... swore to me that she would rescue Princess Dusk."

The human Princess- Ciaran had almost forgotten. Could she possibly still live?

"Seeing the Knight Artorias before me and hearing your account, I can't help but think she must have paid some terrible price. I fear for the lives of Princess Dusk and the child, both."

"The child... you mean the woman?" Elizabeth nodded at Ciaran's question, "Why-... nevermind. Frankly, I fear for our own lives if it comes back." She considered Artorias at her back, the contingent sprawled across the clearing. Did they have enough firepower to repel the creature? The knights knew powerful lightning miracles, but what if that wasn't enough?

"You said it was heading for town?" Elizabeth said.

"Yes, well.. it seemed to go through the Township," thrashing, shrieking, "before descending into the chasm swallowing the area."

"I wonder..."

Ciaran sighed, shook her head, "You don't think-"

"It sounds impossible, but..." Elizabeth squared her face, as much as she was able, with Ciaran's, "She swore to me. She rescued Artorias when he seemed lost, and now she faces the Beast at the bottom of the cavern for the sake of my Dusk, this human you refer to as _it_ , this creature possessed by the Dark."

Ciaran felt her chest constrict as her pacing increased in intensity, one hand worrying the hilt of a tracer. "Could a human really do all that? Not an hour ago, one aimed a crossbow at me as I tried to bring Artorias back for healing. They are the cause of this Abyssal cancer devouring Oolacile. They poisoned their own land, doomed us all-" _exposed Artorias to possession_ -

"Lady Ciaran-"

"-their corruption consumes their bodies and drives them mad in undeath!" She wheeled on the sage, "How? _Why?_ "

A space of heavy silence filled the tent before Elizabeth spoke again, "My lady, humans are capable of a great many things when sufficiently motivated, both terrible and wonderful."

They stood in silence, Ciaran's gaze trained on a flickering candle. She thought of the New Londo refugee waiting outside, and the man in black. Her eyes shifted to Elizabeth, and then back to Artorias. "Is that so?"

It answered nothing.

"What will you do now?" Elizabeth asked.

 _Go home. Find Gough, pick up everything, and leave this godsforsaken place to its fate. Get Artorias some proper care, and wait on him like a lovesick handmaiden._ A pity they couldn't uproot Elizabeth and plant her in the palace gardens.

What a pleasant dream that would be.

She turned to look at Artorias resting on the ground. Ciaran knew her duty. She could not forget who she was. And a question burned deep inside her, mad as Chaos itself.

* * *

After what felt like an age, sitting in a circle of spears, Marvelous Chester saw the main tent's flap fly open, Lord's Blade Ciaran striding out with purpose.

"You-!" He started, but was cut off by a spearpoint to the throat. He threw the offending knight a sneer, even if it couldn't see it behind his mask, and reseated himself on the damp rock.

"The Lady Ciaran ordered to keep you quiet," it said. He couldn't tell if it was male or female, human or whatever Gwyn's Knights were supposed to be. Their height and narrow heads made him think of tin scarecrows. He wanted to knock off one of their helmets and see what lurked underneath.

Something else seethed beneath his own skin, restless and demanding.

"Captain Umsol!" Ciaran called.

One of the knights immediately approached the Lord's Blade, awaiting orders. "My Lady."

"I am ordering the majority of the contingent to retreat. Leave behind a scouting party and a healer to remain at this camp with horses. Make haste with the Knight Artorias to Anor Londo and inform Dragon Slayer Ornstein of what has occurred. I will stay behind and attempt to retrieve Princess Dusk. And-" here she glanced at Chester, "-determine the fate of that foul beast that attacked Knight Artorias." She leaned in, telling the Captain something else in a low voice.

The seething thing under Chester's skin made him snarl, and then give a toothy smile, because he knew the identity of the monster she named like an epithet. It had to be her. The fool did it somehow. Didn't the damn knightess just tell him what he wanted? And this woman wanted to go looking for-

He chuckled to himself, earning what he assumed to be annoyed looks from his guards. He didn't stir when they left him to help pack up camp. They began marching off in neat lines flanking a wagon carrying the comatose body of their dear, most noble of knights- how brave, how sacrificial his nature! Not so tough as the tales said, after all, and no more mongrel mascot to keep him company on cold nights, given the wolf's absence.

If he wanted to, he could send a crossbow bolt up the limp bint's nose from where he sat, and that's where the knight's tale would end. No honorable death. No noble sacrifice. Just put down like the rest of the mad dogs amidst the wailing of his blue whore. He wondered what manner of soul would pour out of such a vessel. It would be darker than expected, no doubt. Especially now. What a shock that would be to his mewling cadre.

A clattering stirred Chester from his thoughts- his confiscated crossbow, now thrown at his feet. Ciaran stood before him.

"I entered the colosseum to find an abyssal beast sapping something from Knight Artorias. It bested the both of us, leaving us alive, then fled into the chasm." She watched him expectantly, bemused mask unreadable.

 _It._ He'd rather had enough of masked women. He picked up his crossbow, checking it for damage. As much as he held the knightess in contempt, he knew she wasn't stupid enough to offer him a chance at retaliation. Given _he_ was no fool, he knew that meant she didn't consider him a problem.

She was a Lord's Blade, after all. One of the best. How humbling. Marvelous Chester didn't like being humbled.

"What can you tell me about it?" she asked.

He stood straight, shouldering his crossbow, not answering. Of course he knew her. He'd needled her for ages, it seemed. Too long.

"Was she something to you?"

Marvelous Chester turned to her. "Do you wear a mask to hide your plain looks from your precious, oversized knight?" He took a swaggering step forward, "tell me, how does it feel to come in second place to a dog?"

Something rammed into Chester's face, knocking him on his back. Shrapnel bit into his cheek and forehead, and he felt his hat go flying. "DAMN-" As the sparks cleared from his vision, he reached up to feel his face- his mask was gone- shattered on the ground- and stinging cuts oozed blood. "You b-" Pain blossomed in his side from a kick, and he writhed on the ground.

Ciaran shook out her gauntleted fist, massaging her wrist with the other. "Enough of that, now. It isn't proper to disrespect a Lord's Blade."

"Go to hell!"

But she had already turned away, gesturing and barking orders to the remaining knights. Chester grappled for his crossbow, even though he didn't dare use it. Air hissed in and out of his broken nose. He spat a stream of blood and spittle from his mouth, wiping it with his gloved hand.

"What will you do now?"

She had turned back to him, posture managing to make her appear appraising.

"What concern is it of yours?" he spat back, stepping away. _What now, indeed?_

"Why are you here?" there was a trace of honest curiosity.

Because he couldn't leave. _She_ had travelled through the bonfires- disappearing in a wreath of flame. That was how she explained it. You saw flame, and when it cleared you were someplace else. The bonfires were connected through the warp and weft of Lordran, through time itself.

But he wasn't supposed to be here, and he couldn't connect to the bonfires like she could- a gift she'd acquired during whatever idiotic quest she ventured. Waiting alone by the cliff, he often daydreamed of murdering the man he'd acquired the old medallion from, and cursed his curiosity leading him to the end of the alley, where the whispering vortex lay.

Ciaran had turned from him again, seeming to have had enough of his silence. She collected three knights and gathered supplies.

"What are you doing?" he asked, unable to help himself.

"Nothing you need be concerned with," she said, turning his words back on him, "If you wish... you may follow the caravan out of Oolacile. But either way, you should leave this place."

The thought repulsed him, as did her apparent pity. He would rather leap into the midnight voids dotting the landscape. But… the blade and her cohort were going back into town. Doubtless in an attempt to finish the fool knight's mission.

"I'll make my own way," he sneered.

"Suit yourself," she replied dismissively.

He thought he'd be escorted out of camp, but he was roundly ignored as the rest of the gear was packed and the caravan moved out. One of the knights flanking Ciaran gave him a final glance before they disappeared into the forest, going the opposite direction of the caravan. Even the giant mushroom had managed to disappear.

A flock of crows flew overhead, and after that it was silent. Chester stood quite still for a long time, then hoisted his crossbow and walked into the forest.

* * *

A memory against the burning chaos, it rose underneath the roaring in her head, under her ribs. The angry tide ripping at her limbs. The darkness had ideas, it carried fragments of the knight's pain. She was dispersed among it. But she was on a mission- part of her rebelled against the consumption, and slowly she felt bits of the darkness reorient itself, listening, recognizing her. It listened to the memory as it poured weakly out of a secluded corner of her brain, unbidden, and into the rebel, giving it strength.

When she was a child in Astora she once visited the coast. The memory was vague- she did not remember who she was with, or if maybe she was alone. Maybe it wasn't a visit, and she lived there?

She remembered being on the docks at night, creeping along the wet planks, hearing boats knocking together in the darkness, the surf hitting the rocks and hissing further down the coast. The moon was eaten up by the night sky, and shyer stars shone brighter for its absence, and she moved through the dim starlight unafraid. Up ahead was a black hole of a shape, sitting low on the end of the dock. It was a man, and her star-keened eyes picked out his hands gesturing her forward and wrapping around her shoulder. He offered her a flat stone, and she slung it eagerly at the surface of the water with a flick of her wrist.

It skipped five times before disappearing into the blackness, and each place it skipped blossomed with blue-green light that rippled outward. She and the man got into a small boat and rowed out into the water, each stroke kindling the strange seaborne light. She leaned out, scooped the ocean into her hands, and saw tiny glowing creatures wriggling in the water as it poured through the gaps in her fingers. The man told her that many such creatures lived in the deepest parts of the sea, far from the light of day, only sometimes approaching the surface to share their spectral glow, and she marveled that such things could dwell there, in the absence of light.

The abyss was listening.


	4. Gough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My main man.

* * *

When Ciaran's trio neared the colliseum once again, there appeared to be some sort of commotion amongst a portion of the people she had sent to find Gough. They were gathered in the ruins. When she approached they stilled, and one of the healers approached her, running and nearly stumbling.

"My Lady!" she cried.

Ciaran's heart sank. "Be calm. Take a moment to collect yourself," the girl was young, and appeared near weeping, "Honor the Godmother with your bravery." Ciaran quietly cursed the princess Gwynevere in her heart for abandoning her people. "Tell me what's happened." She glanced at the knights, who refused to meet her gaze.

"Lady Ciaran, we found Master Gough!" the young woman clutched at her talisman, knuckles white.

"Has he…" Ciaran didn't finish.

"We found him in a tower up the stairs. Oh, my Lady, he's alive!"

Ciaran felt a wash of relief, then asked, "Then why are you so upset? Is he not responding to healing?" How badly was he injured? Could he not move? What if he'd been attacked by Artorias?

How had he been so near for so long?

"He seems to suffer a blindness that won't be healed," the healer collected herself, "but otherwise seems of sound body."

" _Where is he?_ " The blindness sounded worrying, but Ciaran needed to speak to him at once.

The knights again shuffled uncomfortably, and the healer seemed ready to cry again.

"He… he won't come with us!"

Ciaran thought perhaps she had misheard. "What."

The healer covered her mouth, and one of the knights moved forward to rest a hand on her shoulder. The white robed maiden tried to continue, "He, he said…"

When she trailed off the knight turned and finished for her, "My Lady… Master Gough insists on staying in Oolacile."

"He won't be moved!" another knight piped up.

"We tried everything to convince him, Lady Ciaran," the first knight said. He hesitated, appearing to swallow, "I believe he is… ah.."

Ciaran held up a hand to stop him. She didn't need to hear anymore. "Where is he?"

The knights directed her up a flight of stairs, to the forced-open door of a crumbling tower. A few knights and handmaidens stood on solemn watch outside, refusing to leave their master. Ciaran sent them downstairs to the others, then collected herself and stepped through the mossy doorway, wondering briefly how Gough had managed to come to this place. He must've climbed the walls. The height would've given him a hunter's vantage across the landscape, a clear view of the sky, as he watched for wicked black wings.

It was said the fearsome Kalameet was the last of the true dragons. She and the caravan had seen no sign of him- it was part of the reason she'd come thusly _prepared_. Had Gough felled him after all, his final hunt over?

The giant knight sat amid a pile of stones and gear, looking more weatherbeaten than she was used to. The tough hide of his arms looked cracked and dry in places, and his armor needed cleaning. Something seemed to have flowed out of the eye holes of his deeply grooved helmet, or was it over them? He held a blade in one hand, small enough in his hands, and carved at a rock. The sound of scraping filled the space as she stood there.

She opened her mouth to speak several times, clenching her fists, feeling a different emotion fuel each attempt- anger, frustration, bewilderment- before giving up. She stepped closer and lowered herself to her knees, resting her hands on her thighs with a sigh, and watched him carve. The material was more wood than stone, she realized, and Gough artfully carved the lump into something more suggestive than representative, somehow managing to make it appear gloomy.

He found a kindred spirit with the Giant Blacksmith for more reasons than a shared heritage.

She stared at her metal scaled hands for a while, idly smoothing the hem of her robes, before she tried to speak again, but she was interrupted.

"You did not choose the brightest for your squad," she could practically feel his deep voice in her bones.

She had not expected that. "What?"

He stopped carving and reached up a forefinger to tap at the eye-holes of this helmet, implying the source of his supposed blindness. Ciaran stood up and looked closer as Gough leaned down- some kind of hardened, amber colored material had been poured over his helmet and left to cool. It looked like some attempt had been made to clear it, but it was a poor one.

"Resin?" she asked, "How did this happen?" She didn't bother to ask why he hadn't taken care of it properly- Ciaran knew well his vow to never remove the helmet Lord Gwyn had bestowed. Perhaps it could be melted off?

Did it matter all that much? She had long suspected he didn't make much use of his sight as one supposed. Not in a helmet like _that_ , anyway.

"A little bit before the situation matured, someone- I suspect young miscreants, gods have mercy on their souls- must've poured it on my helm as I soundly slept."

She sat back down, "You're getting old, then. Maybe I really should leave you up here."

"Do you have hopes of convincing me otherwise?"

"Maybe."

"Hah!" he barked a laugh. Anyone unfamiliar with him would've started at the sound. As it was, he disturbed what few birds remained in the nearby trees into flight.

"I suppose I should expect nothing less," he began carving again, "I've been out here for a great while, you know. Even before this current misfortune."

Ciaran knew that. It was Gough who'd alerted Anor Londo that something was amiss, and when Princess Dusk herself sent for aide, they'd responded quickly.

They'd sent Artorias.

"Is it restful out here?" Away from the city, barracks, monarchs.

"It was." He stopped carving again. "I know it matters not, but I am sorry all the same for all that has happened. I was- I am- utterly powerless before the things you now choose to face."

Ciaran looked down at her hands before getting up and sitting down closer to Gough, leaning against her gentle friend. As wise and stoic as Hawkeye Gough was, she could not imagine what it must have been like for so many days, bearing witness to the city's decay. Hearing Artorias suffer.

"Put such things out of your mind. Even your shoulders aren't broad enough to carry their weight." Even if some irrational part of her _did_ want to blame him for not trying, and for that she hated herself.

"You should go home," he said gently, "he'll need you there." All of them did.

" _I can't_."

"He said the same thing."

She turned away as if struck, then stood abruptly and stalked to the rampart, staring into the crumbling city and the great chasm below.

"We must ascertain the fate of our ally, the princess."

"He said that, too, more or less."

" _I have to see it for myself_ ," she said in a harsh, almost whisper, gripping the edge of the stone wall.

Gough set his tools down and straightened, restings his hands on his knees.

"Gough," she turned back to him, "you must have heard what happened, even if you couldn't see it directly. You must know something."

The great, helmed head seemed to sag slightly before meeting her general gaze again. "So, it would seem this, too, is another of my sins. I should not have suffered the girl's whimsy so patiently. But, what else could I do?"

"You knew her," it was a statement, not a question. It seemed everyone here had known her. What should've been seen as a boon managed to annoy.

"Yes. It was she who made this poor attempt at restoring my sight," he tapped his helmet again, "I implored she... end Artorias's suffering, but her will was her own. It seems the fruit of human stubbornness is fearsome, indeed."

 _End his suffering_. The thought chilled her. "You really think she could've done it?" She found the idea offensive.

"Yes. She was an undead on a journey, and such undead grow powerful if they do not hollow. Hrm..." at this last he rumbled.

"You do not think she was the sort Master Gwyndolin and that awful serpent spoke of, do you?" she and her fellow blades- those that remained- had heard rumors of it in snatches- a farseeing plan that involved the winnowing of powerful undead humans. Details were murky, but what suggestions there were painted a loathsome picture. Sometimes, deep in the night, the suspicion would return to haunt her. Even a faint feeling of misplaced shame who's origin she couldn't place. But this supposed plan was supposed to extend beyond her own long lifetime.

Perhaps Gough had the right of it after all, retiring out here.

"A _powerful_ , undead human," she said it more to herself than Gough, stepping slowly along the rampart wall, trailing the claws of her gauntlet across the lichen. If undead grew powerful enough, retained their sanity long enough, was that what became of them? Elizabeth had supposed the woman had found some other way, a dangerous option to the predicament that had presented itself, but what if it was just a key to some lock that all humans had bound up in themselves? Was it not this that Lord Gwyn himself had feared, sacrificed himself to quell?

But she was dancing around her real question, the suspicion lurking purposefully out of sight, because she wasn't sure what to do with the answer. So she deferred to practicalities.

"Gough, what else can you tell me? If my party faces… her again.." she trailed off.

Gough sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck, "As a wandering undead warrior, she appeared to have acquired many talents, but knowing them wouldn't help you, facing her as she is now. If I had to guess, I would suppose that she may have succeeded where these doomed souls of Oolacile had failed."

"Succeeded?" Ciaran stepped closer to him, hands at her side, "At what?"

"Harnessing their... humanity. To their own ends," he grunted at the last, "Ends indeed…"

Then, it was as she feared? She decided it didn't matter anymore. She stepped up to Gough and rested both hands on his enormous one.

"Gough, promise me you'll return to Anor Londo. They'll need you, too." Artorias and Ornstein, those who remained in the kingdom. She gazed up at him, "Please?"

He slightly tightened his fingers and brushed a thumb lightly over her gauntlets, "If you yourself return, then I will consider it."

She gripped the flesh of his hand harder, "Then, I will see you again soon, my friend." She patted the hand and turned, walking purposefully for the door, as if to resolve how she would purposefully return through it. Despite the obvious risk, there was no point in consciencing failure. When she reached the doorway Ciaran stopped and turned, "Hawkeye, what of Kalameet? I've seen no sign of him since arriving."

Gough stared at her for a moment, then began to laugh quietly, slapping his knee once and ending in a few barks she could feel in her chest. "Ahhh… hah. Haaah… I dare say I proffered assistance, but to tell it plainly-"

Ciaran stared, taken aback by his sudden mirth.

"She slew him."

* * *

Ciaran paused briefly at the threshold of the colliseum before descending the stairs into the rest of the Township. She stood at the lip of the chasm swallowing the town, considering what lay below, wondering how big a fool she was for going. If she should have brought more men. Or less.

 _More knights wouldn't have helped against that creature_. She shuddered involuntarily and turned back to the three knights at her back. If she ordered them to return, would they even go?

Gough said the woman had _slain Kalameet._ She'd practically stalked away, Gough's chuckling chasing her down the stairs. Impossible. One undead against the thorn of Anor Londo? If it was true, she should be pleased at the death of their longtime enemy, but she resented the undead's apparent power.

Then again, being undead merely meant you had the double-edged luxury of learning from your mortal mistakes. Ciaran wondered how many tries it must have taken her.

"Come," she gestured to her party, "We must ascertain the fate of Princess Dusk and the monster of the Abyss."

They moved quickly through the township's stumbling, skewed architecture, passing walls covered in dying creeper. Wordless, Ciaran made short work of the bloated horrors as they passed through. She took point- one of the knights providing ranged support with a dragonbow, the other played defense with a spear and heavy shield, and the third brandishing a longsword. Stone arrows splattered cancerous skulls, pierced the gleaming eyes of hexing witches. Tracers cleanly separated thigh from hip. Spear and blade ripped into lanky shoulders.

After dispatching one group, Ciaran looked more closely at the disjointed bricks beneath her feet. She'd stepped in something. Crouching down, she reached a shaking hand toward the tacky blue substance. Almost touching it, she could feel the cold reaching through her gauntlets. It was a trail of the familiar blue ichor, she realized. Two trails. One older, heading to the colliseum, and the other moving further into town. _Down._ The knowledge of the older's origin squeezed her heart, and a wave of fear threatened to break.

Artorias had been suffused with this wicked material. If even Artorias- a warrior of unbending will- had met defeat below, what did that bode for her small party? She held in a sigh and straightened. He had always been bull-headed, on his own at least.

She would just have to be wiser. They weren't there to engage. If they could retrieve Dusk, they would. If not...

"My Lady…" one of the knights caught her attention and turned to stare into the town behind them. "We are being followed."

Now she did sigh. She thought as much. That possibility was one of the more convincing reasons to bring the knights. Not that she couldn't deal with the dark cloaked man on her own, but even she was not immune to being distracted and taken by surprise.

Perhaps she should've killed him, after all.

"Stay focused for now. If he becomes a problem, we'll deal with him."

They moved on, spiraling deeper into the sunken ruin.

* * *

It was not that Dusk wasn't afraid. The animal desire to live cried out, protesting at her predicament, blinding her senses as shifting layers of angry darkness, like rough fur, enfolded her. Dusk had always been an empathetic child, Elizabeth had said. It was what enabled her to rule with such a fair and sensitive hand. But she knew her sort of understanding went beyond what was normal.

So it wasn't fear, now, that drove her into a fetal position- crushing her legs to her chest, chin tucked and soaked with tears- but sorrow. Nostalgia. Urgent, obsessive need.

Loneliness.

Raw, sharp emotions stripped her heart bare until they were all she knew, as if she were an empty vessel who existed only to house them. Time was counted in the variation in their spectrum.

So she felt every subtle contour of twisting confusion as it passed through Manus in waves, at the appearance of the lights like dim green stars in the cavern. The lights were dispersed through the body of a creature, its form subtly mirroring that of the beast. A mane of thick, waving filaments lined a head with an elongated jaw. The eyes were clusters of blue-green, pin-prick rosettes scattered across the head.

Manus roared in challenge, tail lashing, and the other answered in a guttering cry, shaking its head. All other abstractions were stilled in the presence of the newcomer. They approached each other, circling, spiraling closer and closer til they were cheek to cheek, heads low. The beast- Manus's- jaws slowly opened, emitting a low whine as his myriad red eyes glowed bright. He inhaled his glowing reflection's scent, taking its measure, readying the dark power of the abyss. He snorted, stamped a twisted staff the size of a small tree.

He halted in recognition.

Not alone. Another. Another. Begat of the dark. Manus's head cocked as he read the nature of his visitor.

Female.

The nostalgic need changed to a much older one, and the beast's whine became layered with a basso rumble as it pushed its muzzle into the other's neck. The female's neck elongated as it twisted under the beast's chin and buried its face in his chest. How long it had been alone, woken to senseless torture at the hands of strangers. The phosphorescent, maned head of the intruder sniffed hard- once, twice, each breath sounding like a gust of wind. One of Manus's own fur-like filaments extended to gently stroke the other on the nape of its neck, still rumbling.

The other became still as glass, even ceasing the constant motion of the glowing filaments, its maw slowly opening, lips lifting over marching lines of glimmering teeth.

Dusk was still connected to Manus when the other gave a skull-splitting, sustained roar and tore into his chest, tackling him to the ground, the mane digging and ripping into the storm of abyssal essence with the burning hostility of vengeance, and so felt every howling echo of pain and betrayal, till she was enveloped in cool light and blessed silence.


	5. Chasm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OH BOY.

* * *

The light grew dimmer as the party journeyed further down, slaying any twisted beasts in their way. When the creatures were cleared, there was only silence- occasionally broken by the splitting of stone as the city sunk under its own weight.

After felling a final (frustratingly resilient) monstrosity, Ciaran stepped back outside the grand hall. This building was at the lowest point of Oolacile's sinkhole, found at the end of a wide, paved road. Statues flanked the walk, robed figures holding the likeness of Oolacile's famous pale branches. Each was more or less identical.

And all were equally, freshly headless. It was surprisingly deliberate, given the population. Maybe it was done early on. It seemed someone knew who to blame after all.

She snorted and walked back inside, skirting the slain creature. Even unmoving, it's features were difficult to discern, all lumps of flesh chained to a wooden pyle. A heavy forged weight was attached to one of the chains, perhaps meant to slow the creature down. It did not. Dodging the weight swinging through the air had been a nuisance.

The sorcery running the elevators throughout the city still worked, they had found. At the back of the hall was a passage leading to one such elevator. They took it down, following the ichor trail. The light of the magic moving the stone was gentle and cool, illuminating the claustrophobicly close walls sliding past. At the bottom they found a dungeon with rows of iron barred cells. The rusted iron was rent apart, bent outward by something making an escape, something absurdly strong. Ciaran thought of the creature upstairs and walked further. The stone wall in the back was broken out, rubble piled into the dungeon. Perhaps the madness had started here.

Beyond the break in the wall lay a deeper darkness, a cavernous blackness that reminded her of the terrible creature from the colosseum. The trail seemed to eat into the stone, here, and plunged off the edge of a cliff into nothing. A footpath led through the cavern on their left. They struck torches and moved onward, the knights hesitating before following their Lady.

"Stay close," she said unnecessarily.

As they wound down the uneven path they found more bodies, of the monstrous sort they'd encountered above. But these were crushed and strewn about- some in pieces- almost beyond recognition. A new trail of fresh ichor revealed itself.

 _She went through here. We're close_. Her jaw clenched involuntarily.

Something abruptly moved in the darkness, and the four turned with weapons drawn, torches held high.

A fearsomely large wolf came slinking out of the darkness, tail lowered in apparent shame. The hilt of a large sword was gripped in its mouth, sword tip trailing the ground. Ciaran felt a torrent of relief. She dropped to her knees and held out her arms, beckoning Sif into her embrace.

"It's Artorias's pup!" one of the knight's exclaimed.

When the wolf remained reticent, she whispered, "He lives." At that the wolf dropped the sword and rushed into her arms with joyous howls and whines, nearly knocking her over. Ciaran rubbed the wolf's ears and wrapped her arms around the thickly furred neck. "Quietly, now! It wasn't your fault." _I forgive you. What could you have possibly done in the face of all this?_ After a moment more, Ciaran pulled back, looking the animal over for injuries, "Are you hurt?"

The wolf jumped back and spun around, stood straight and emitted a low, sharp _whuff_.

Ciaran stood, "The caravan has a head start, but I know you can catch up to them. Go to him! He needs you." And Ciaran knew it. The benefits of a friendly, warm, furry body could not be overstated.

Sif sneezed, then gave a low rumbling growl that transitioned to a whine. The knights looked at each other.

"Our goal lies yet ahead," Ciaran replied slowly, understanding.

Sif gave another whuff, whirled around, and retrieved her fallen sword, swinging the hilt into a more comfortable position within her clamped jaws.

This was easy enough for the knights to understand. One laughed, "She is as stubborn as her master!"

Ciaran gave a sigh, then let a rueful smile spread behind her mask. "Then come. We must retrieve Princess Dusk."

After sharing a ration and water with the wolf, They continued deeper into the cave, Ciaran relieved to have her trusted ally at her back. She turned to the wolf, "Do you know what we face?"

Sif slowed slightly, her ears sweeping flat and she refused to look Ciaran in the face. That could be read several ways, Ciaran thought. "We are tracking a creature that came down from above, that made this trail."

The wolf gave a vague sniff of the trail, then sent her a quick, enigmatic look and continued forward, picking up speed.

They crossed a bridge of ancient, unfamiliar architecture- fallen over the pit of yawning dark- then began making their cautious way down a curving tunnel when the keening started.

Vicious wails split the air and made the walls of the chasm vibrate. Ciaran crouched down next to the wall, involuntarily clutching at Sif's pale scruff as the oversized wolf flattened its ears and shrank to her side, teeth bared and glimmering. Without thinking, Ciaran covered those ears with her hand. Sif didn't even have a helmet, after all.

" _Gods!_ " One of the knights spat, taking a step back up the tunnel, nearly slipping on loose rock. The keening didn't stop, and covering their ears did nothing to drown it out. It seemed to vibrate their very bones.

After an eternity, there was only a ringing in Ciaran's ears. When she checked on the knights, they appeared dazed, and Sif appeared twice more her already impressive size, fur on end and shaking her head. Ciaran released her ears and smoothed down the ruff, patting Sif's snout when she offered an appreciative lick to her gauntlet, despite how little Ciaran's hands must've helped.

"Steady now," she murmured, just in hearing of the knights. Partly to herself. _Had that been Manus, or…?_

"My lady?" one of the knight's asked. In answer she signed at them to wait. After a pregnant period of time without further disturbance, she signed again ahead of them with one hand- they would continue.

They moved forward with care and purpose, the silence making Ciaran feel exposed. When they reached a large pit in the ground, she noticed a faint light, like the kind that used to be given off by rare mushrooms that grew in Oolacile's royal wood. Sif's ears swung back as she sniffed the edge and shrunk back, whining softly. Ciaran reached out to pat her head, wishing she could take her gauntlet off and run her fingers through the great wolf's ruff, but there was no time for such comforts. The darkness felt full of eyes. And it would look strange in front of the men.

She silently motioned for them to clear the area around the hole and prepare ropes for rappelling. Not that she and Sif would need it on the way down. She regretted not having her own experienced blades-women to spare for this sortie.

Ciaran fished out a prism stone from a small sack and tossed it into the pit. It lit the walls as it fell before shattering on the floor of a cavern below. When there was no response from the pit for some time, she threw several more to demark the ground and surface of the wall. Instructing the knights and wolf to wait for her signal, she descended first, climbing down the rough ledge and gripping the slick surface of the stone, sharp fingers of her gauntlets granting purchase. With the grace and skill befitting a Lord's Blade, she made her way to the floor of the cavern.

As she descended, forearms aching, she thought she could hear the hush of a breeze, or perhaps the deep rushing of an underground stream. She could feel a brush of air, too warm for this deep underground. Reaching the bottom, she beheld the sight before her, and realized with growing disquiet that the sound she heard was neither wind nor water.

The cavern was larger than she expected, ceiling vaulting into blackness. Rubble from broken ceremonial stones littered ground rent with gouges and freshly shattered stone. Ciaran had the sense she was standing in the aftermath of dueling titans.

_If that was the case, who had won?_

But none of these were the ultimate source of her unease. Spread among the ruin was a carpet of bio-luminescent… lichen? Moss? Slime? Short filaments waved slowly in some areas, like grass in a field. The glow slowly brightened, then dimmed to near imperceptibility. Then brightened again. This slow pulse timed with the rushing sound. Like exhalations. Ciaran took a step back, despite herself.

She wanted to be convinced that this was a natural part of the cave. Perhaps something documented by passionate scholars. But something about the way it moved, breathed, made her senses scream warning, even if the appearance had changed. Was this a manifestation of Manus? Could it be _her?_

After a period of tense observation, she drew her tracers- slowly- alert. If this was a manifestation of rampant humanity, it looked markedly different from what she'd seen before.

She stepped towards the expanse, heart pounding. When she reached the edge it began to shrink from her, light moving through it in gentle waves, brightening embedded rosettes of blue, green, and colors in-between. A dark path, defined by the retreat of the glowing substance, began to meander its way through the subterranean pasture, leading to the center. There, the grass seemed to grow larger, closer together, waving and sparkling with that dim, blue-green light. _An invitation? A_ trap?

She didn't like it.

Not taking her eyes off the mass, she went back to where she had descended. She signaled for Sif and two knights to join her, wondering if she was making a mistake. She heard scrabbling on stone before Sif landed with surprising softness. The two knights rappelled down as quietly as they could, but it was a pointless endeavor in their clinking armor. They landed noisily, making Ciaran wince and check the mass again for any reaction.

"Lady Ciaran?" one knight asked with hesitation. She held a finger to the sanguine mouth of her mask, then turned and crouched next to Sif, who's eyes were locked on the lights.

"What do you think?" Ciaran asked, just loud enough for Sif to hear. "Is that from Manus? Or is it what we seek?" The wolf looked at her sidelong, then lowered her head and dropped the blade from her teeth. Sif could move faster without it.

"Careful," Ciaran said, anxiously.

Sif approached the mass, sniffing the ground with interest. Ciaran could only imagine the story the wolf read there. Had she come this far with Artorias?

Sif gave a low growl when she reached the edge, ears pointed forward. When the mass moved, she leapt back like a cat, but it was only retreating from her like it had Ciaran. It continued to do so at a measured pace, pulling into the center. Sif, suddenly excited, ran back to retrieve her sword, then sprinted after the retreating edge.

Ciaran gripped her weapons. "Stay here," she told the knights sharply, and was after Sif before they could protest. She heard them draw their weapons in preparation, but they didn't follow. Sif followed the dark path without stepping on the moss to either side, waiting for it to retreat before moving forward. The grass grew larger the further they went, waving and sparkling with that dim, alien light, fronds waving like a moonlit field.

Ciaran and Sif held back when they sensed they'd reached the center, then stiffened at the sign of fresh movement. The central mass formed a cocoon that opened like a flower, sides peeling down to reveal the form of a young noblewoman dressed in gold and lace. She shivered in a fitful sleep. _Princess Dusk!_

The mass retreated further, lowering Dusk to the ground. The pulse of light grew slower, and patches of the mass began to turn dark and evaporate until there was only a dim, disparate skein of filaments crossing the ground. _What just happened?_ It was giving her up? _Where did it go?_

Sif rushed forward, heedless of the eerie remains, and began sniffing the princess, then turned to Ciaran and whined.

Despite her misgivings, Ciaran hurriedly joined her and removed a gauntlet, putting her hand on the princess's pale, damp forehead. "Princess Dusk! Can you hear me?" The girl only groaned and shuddered, as if in a nightmare. "Sif, get the others!" The wolf sprinted off, clearing rubble in great, arcing leaps. Ciaran checked Dusk for obvious injuries, then sheathed her weapons, replaced her gauntlet, and gathered the princess up in her arms. She followed Sif.

Questions and suspicions careened through her skull. Confusion was a weapon on the battlefield, and she didn't like it being used against her. But the princess- she still couldn't believe they found her- was weak, and needed attention. The additional burden forced her to choose her steps through the rubble with more care.

Ciaran was about halfway back when she saw the body. Her stomach lurched.

There was a limp, ragged figure splayed across the stone, partially armored and unmoving. She heard Sif and the knights approach, and turned reluctantly away. She handed the princess over to one knight.

"Get her out and back to the healers by Gough. _Now!_ Don't wait for me."

"M-ma'am!" the bewildered knight carefully took the princess, struggling with her skirts. The group hurried back and made arrangements for their ascent, tying the end of the rope into a harness that would allow one knight- carrying Dusk- to be pulled up. One climbed up to assist the third in pulling. Sif sat next to Ciaran, watching.

"Sif, go up there and help. Escort them out," Ciaran said.

Sif stared in return, ears swinging back.

"There's…" Ciaran sighed, "there's something here I need to take care of, first." She crouched down and gave Sif a scratch behind the ears, mindful of the sharp tips of her gauntlet. "It's okay. I know how to be careful, too."

Sif gave a soft whine and leaned into Ciaran's side. She sniffed the air and looked in the direction of the body, ears forward with interest.

Ciaran stood and pointed straight up, "I charge you with protecting the princess and your comrades. Go!" She felt a little guilty for sending the wolf away, for several reasons, but this was for the best.

Sif licked her chops with a huff, then gave her a final, passing brush with her tail before ascending, using her supernatural strength to leap and climb up the sides. After the group had secured Dusk, Ciaran urged them on, promising to follow. She knew Sif would get them safely back to the healers.

And what of herself? Now alone, the knights had left her with a torch and the rope up. She snuffed out the former, sitting down on a rock and setting it down next to her, nurturing a hunch. She waited patiently as her eyes grew used to the darkness and picked out the dim, guttering threads forming a web on the ground. This whole time, she had been readying herself for battle, but down here it seemed almost… serene? The violence of the coliseum distant. The calamity that had wrecked these stones passed.

She got up and walked across the web, hand on a tracer hilt. They grew more densely as she approached the body. Now that she had the time, she could see it more clearly. Silver knight's greaves- worn and aged, faintly tinted blue-green by the light. Articulated gauntlets. A grey, gold hemmed tunic like the fire witches would wear. _Where did she get those-?_ She, because it had to be _her_.

Ciaran drew her tracers when a soft rushing sound surrounded her, resolving itself into a whispering voice that echoed through the space.

_"It's…..you…..."_

She spun around, seeking a source.

_"...here...…"_

She stopped and turned back to the body, kneeling down for a closer look. She could detect the barest movement of the tunic. Her eyes moved up and found a face, partially obscured by half of a broken mask.

"Are you Myssa?" Ciaran asked, tentative.

_"...yes…"_

_Kill her now._

Instead, she reached out with the tip of her tracer and gingerly flipped the mask over. Ciaran expected the emaciated, half corpse appearance of an undead, but she saw an astoran- pale skinned, mute-brown hair once kept in a neat chignon now half loose and tangled. Dark, shadowed eyes stared, empty and unblinking, through barely open slits. She was not old, but certainly not a _child_ , as Gough had referred to her. The body could've been one of Ciaran's blades.

 _This_ was Myssa? _This_ is what she had faced in the colosseum?

There were two ways for an undead to look like this. To look human. One was to simply not go hollow. The other required the consumption of raw humanity. It could rarely be scavenged, but usually it was taken. She felt her mouth curl in disgust.

 _"...do you know…"_ the whisper returned, seeming to struggle to put words together, and Ciaran saw the lips barely move, _"...how to...banish?"_

How to kill an undead for good. Keep them from being reborn in the flames of a bonfire.

"Yes," Ciaran answered.

_"...good…"_

Silence stretched into minutes, and Ciaran sat back, sheathing her silver tracer, but keeping out the gold. She wrapped her arms around her knees, her view of the woman partially obscured by the light of her scimitar.

 _"...what."_ An observation, a question.

"Why?" Ciaran answered.

There was no reply, but the dim filaments seemed to flicker.

"How did you become a monster?" She changed her question.

After a space, the whisper answered. _"...Dark- stalker… Kaathe…"_

Kaathe? The serpent! Then that meant-

_"-only way-"_

A darkwraith. Ciaran stood suddenly in horror. _She was a darkwraith!_ But they had been snuffed out- drowned, buried- under the sin of New Londo. The greatest enemy of god and man, anathema to life and light, they pillaged the humanity of their fellow man, killing and feeding. How was there one here now? Had she escaped?

Ciaran had no doubt about what she had to do, but none of it made sense. The only thing here that neared the definition of a darkwraith was the dark form that had nearly killed her.

And shouldn't that be enough?

 _Feeding. She had been_ feeding _off of him._

She glanced at the filaments, remembering the glowing expanse. Artorias, returned. Then what _was all of this?_

"How? New Londo has been sealed."

 _"...I...do not belong… here,"_ Like the dark man with his foreign invectives and strange garb. _"...your present...my past…Manus brought me...use bonfires."_ So the bonfires went even through time? She again questioned the gods and their wisdom. She had always wondered why the royal family chose to help develop the bonfire network, not wholly satisfied that its use was gated by a relic.

"Where is Manus?"

_"Killed- him..."_

Ciaran sighed, sitting back down again, not doubting the woman's words. If Manus was the source of the abyss, then it would stop spreading, and Oolacile would stabilize. Another double edged sword. And another paradox.

If Elizabeth had known she was a darkwraith, she would've told Ciaran. But the sage mushroom had been right. Even now, Dusk was returned to the surface- insensate but alive- and Manus gone.

"Why did you do all of this?"

_"...save her…"_

"No," Ciaran raised her voice, "You could've killed him and gone past, but you didn't. You..." she trailed off.

 _"...I did not.. want him to... die."_ she said, speaking a little more clearly than the whispers before. Stating it so simply. Ciaran felt her hands clenching the ground.

_"... extraction...rough...sorry..."_

Extraction. "You siphoned off the abyss essence," Ciaran realized, mind spinning. Of course. And the way to forcibly siphon humanity was known only to the darkwraiths. "You learned the secret of the dark hand from Kaathe. Then-" she gestured to the remnants of bio-luminescence all around them, "what is all this? What did you _do?_ "

Ciaran heard a faint sigh, _"... don't know. ..it wanted to.. control me… but.. made it listen."_

How alarming. "You still haven't answered my question. Why did you go this far?"

An odd sound, a hint of laughter? _"...childish dreams...of a foolish... undead hollow..tired of death.."_ Ciaran noticed the voice was coming more from the woman in front of her than around her, and weaker for that. The filaments were beginning to fade.

Ciaran considered her answer.

"Death is our closest companion. It doesn't leave people like us be," she said, then, wondering at her own use of _us_ , "You don't look hollow to me."

_"Any... more questions?"_

Thousands. "Why do you want me to banish you?"

_"Don't want… but… not sure what I've.. become."_

Ciaran didn't know either. She didn't understand what this _meant_. Powerful undead, chaotic humanity, and wraith hexes channeled for altruism. Was this what Lord Gwyn had been afraid of? What sort of plans would Gwyndolin have for her, if he knew? She thought back to the chaos and fear in the colosseum, and knew what she _should_ do- was _sworn_ to do.

Ciaran was to eliminate threats to the kingdom. If Ornstein had been here… but he wasn't. And Artorias was going _home_.

What _kingdom?_

"I can't let you live, but I can't let you die, either. Tell me, what is it like where you are from-" Ciaran was interrupted by a flash of light, then another. She leapt to her feet as the remaining filaments sparked around them and crumbled into ash. The body on the ground tensed.

 _"...HE- IS HERE-"_ the woman croaked with sudden urgency, weary force.

A sharp, hot pain blossomed from Ciaran's lower back, and she stumbled forward. She reached around and pulled out a fine dart, the back half crafted in delicate metal to resemble a rose. Her knees buckled as a numbness began to spread through her body, and she fell next to Myssa, struggling to hold herself up as her body grew heavy.

This is what she got for letting herself relax- for getting distracted. As the toxin spread, her body felt pinned to the floor by an invisible force, all muscle robbed of strength. Her face landed cheek-side down, jostling her mask and pinching the skin. She found herself parallel to Myssa, and Ciaran locked hidden gaze to open. The pallid face tilted her direction, and stared with wide eyes, mouth moving as if attempting to speak.

Ciaran thought she looked ridiculous, like a beached trout. The eyes flicked to stare somewhere behind her, and she heard the approach of boots and the scuff of leather.

She really should've killed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ciaran, honey... Come on.
> 
> Y'all, give me ALL YOUR THOUGHTS. They give me strangth.


End file.
